


the princess and the pea (murphy, stop kicking me)

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bunker Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, all fluff, all of the fluff, bed sharing fluff, clarphy fluff, even teeth brushing fluff, fighting fluff, just so much fluff, name calling fluff, nose booping fluff, nothing but fluff, pillow fighting fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4196052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First she steals his sweater, then she steals his dignity, and then she steals his dinner?</p><p>The bed is his and he isn't sharing.</p><p>Although, Clarke has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the princess and the pea (murphy, stop kicking me)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Hell, new reader. If this is your first time stumbling upon this series, I definitely recommend reading the parts before. Skedaddle back to part 1 and try your very hardest to get back to here. May we meet again.
> 
> ~  
> DISCLAIMER: I'm clearly running out of good titles. Forgive me.
> 
> So to level out the amount of heart stabbing angst I've been feeding to you guys in recent installments, this time I'll be shoving fluff down your throats.
> 
> More fluff for your fluff, kind reader?

“Is that my shirt?”

Clarke tugged the sleeves of Murphy’s favorite burgundy sweater over her palms, shaking her head as he blocked the doorway.

“No, _this_ is.” She pinched his tattered old grey shirt off of the floor, cringing at the smell and appearance. Plagued by holes and blood stains, it was no piece of art.

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at the blonde and trying to frown.

She smiled innocently at him, hoping to keep it on, because he _did_ technically call dibs on this one when she first arrived… but it was just _so soft_.

“It’s too big for you anyways.” He said, waving a hand at the bottom of the sweater that rubbed against her bare knees.

“No pants, no problems.” Clarke whispered, and Murphy practically growled, pushing past her and shoving her out of the bedroom.

“Watch it, asshole!” She shouted, pressing her ear against the door, when she heard a snicker from inside. Her face went cherry red, she was sure, but she dialed it down quickly. “Choose your battles, Clarke.” She whispered to herself, backing away from the door and curling up in front of the television instead.

After rifling through disk after disk after disk, Clarke shook the cabinet in frustration, unable to make a final decision.

“I want to watch the dragon one.”

Clarke whipped her head around at such a speed it was surprising that her neck was still intact. “Oh, it’s just y- _what the hell._ ” Clarke finished with a hiss, and Murphy immediately grinned from ear to ear.

She was just minding her own business, innocently trying to find some quality entertainment, and that- that _idiot_ struts in like he- like he just _owns_ the place, and-

“Why in the name of all that is or has ever been holy are you- just- _why,_ Murphy?”

He smiled again, clasping his hands behind his back.

The item of sin in question was the smallest shirt in the bunker, a purple button-up that must have been much too small for the man who previously resided here, and most of all, it was _her_ shirt.

The poor idiot looked like he was suffocating, the sleeves squeezing his scrawny arms and the torso hugging his lean upper body right back.

“Is your blood even circulating? Can you breathe?”

“I am feeling a little light-headed, but it’s worth it, don’t you think? Beauty hurts.” He confessed, dramatically tucking his hair behind in his ear in a very over-exaggerated, stereotypically feminine way, by curving his fingers around the outer part of his ear and pursing his lips.

“You’re feeling light-headed because there’s nothing in there.“ She mumbled, and Murphy scoffed immediately. Although he didn't protest.

She put the DVD he pointed to into the thing that does the thing that spins the thing that turns on the television… it was all a bit much for a simple Ark girl without a tech-thumb, truth be told.

“How To Train Your Dragon. This sounds informative.” Clarke observed, stealing glances at a very red-faced Murphy attempting to sit.

“Is there a noise of something like heavy breathing in here? Or is it just me? It kind of sounds like, tearing seams, maybe?”

Murphy’s head twitched in a sarcastic way, and he rolled his eyes, lowering himself into his Special Spinning Chair. “Get your ears checked Grif-“

There was a _‘POP’_ sound, and something clicked against the wall across the room. Clarke’s head swung knowingly at Murphy, and he looked down.

A button.

She burst into tears immediately, biting her fist to stop laughing so loudly that it echoed, as Murphy began to undo all of the buttons in a shaky, nervous fashion.

“You’re getting _fat_ , Mur-“

“You shut the hell up, McBoob.”

Clarke gasped, scrunching up her face as she reached for the nearest pillow and chucked it straight at his big, fat, _stupid_ face.

“They’re not that big!”

“ _Yeah_ , and Bellamy Blake’s a virgin!” He crowed.

“That makes all but one of us.” Clarke sneered, and Murphy  jumped to his feet, looking for something to throw in a frenzied panic.

“Do you even know what a boob looks like, Murphy the _Big Giant Virgin_?!” Clarke screamed from across the sitting room, and turned to grab a pool cue to threaten him with, before...  _The Accident._

She was suddenly seeing stars as, what she presumed by the furry texture was a couch pillow, hit her in just the right spot, knocked her off of her feet, and she ended up on the floor.

And she wasn’t getting up.

-

“Welcome to the bright and shiny world, Princess.”

Clarke came to in a white sea of sheets, with Murphy lying next to her and fiddling with a gold watch.

“Bet this ugly thing was a real treat pre-apocalypse.”

Clarke nodded, touching her head gingerly. “What’s the damage, Doc?”

Murphy smirked, tossing the watch carelessly onto the bedside table and shifting onto his knees. “You bumped your precious little head on the wall, courtesy of my incredible aim and unstoppable desire for justice.”

"You mean vengeance."

"No, _justice._ "

“So brain damage or not, Sadist?”

“Not unless you want there to be, sweet cheeks.”

Clarke sighed as she heard him snort at his own terrible sense of humor, looking away. “Now I remember why everyone hated you.”

Murphy grinned, sliding off of the bed. “What do you want for dinner?”

Clarke turned and smiled at him, and he stood with his hands in his pockets next to the bed, waiting patiently.

“Number 18, please?” She gave him another smile, knowing that he absolutely hated the ravioli, but he stifled a cringe and planted a kiss on her nose.

Clarke stared at him, utterly amazed. It was only a bump on the head, and he was sacrificing the one thing that meant most to him, food.

“Anything for you, Chestnut McBoob.”

He practically sprinted out (she swears to the Ark that he was giggling), and slammed the door to the bedroom before she could get in another word.

Clarke glared at the ceiling.

“Asshole.”

-

“Beep, beep, beep.” Murphy backed his rear into the side of the bed, hunched over with his elbows on his knees.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m your ride to the restaurant. Luxury transportation.”

“I can walk.”

“A princess does not walk, she is escorted by a knight in shining armor.”

“Bellamy's here?”

Murphy groaned, finally breaking character of a talking automobile, or hunchbacked bodyguard or something, the point was kind of lost on her.

“Fine.” Clarke sighed, and Murphy did a little excited jiggle thing, (she wasn’t sure what that was, really.)

She looped her legs around his waist and arms around his neck, and he wrapped his arms around her legs, eager to show off his _big macho man strength_ , of course.

“Safe passage on your travels, Miss.”

“Murphy- no. No!” Clarke squeaked, as he ducked over and began to run full speed out through the tight bunker, narrowly avoiding the doorways and the very, _very_ breakable looking relics and statues in the hallway.

_“YOU SAID THIS WOULD BE LUXURY TRANSPORTATION!”  
_

Murphy made a _‘SCREEEECH’_ noise when they reached the bar, and Clarke cursed herself for letting him watch those “ _Fast and Angry_ _Whatever_ ” movies. May whatever god that may or may not be out there have mercy on their souls if he ever actually gets the motorcycle working. The boy wants to ride.

Clarke swatted him upside the head and then kissed him on the cheek, for almost killing her and then for making her dinner, as she smiled at her food.

"Ravioli ravioli give me the formuoli." 

Clarke looked up at him and glared. Damn those cartoon recordings. Damn them all.

He was perched on the counter with crackers, hiking up a pair of a denim jeans that looked oh-so hilarious on him, and Clarke then looked from him and instead at the squeaky clean red motorcycle.

If the others ever stopped by, she thought she might have a way to have a certain mechanic and a certain dumbass get along.

One could dream.

-

“Move over.”

“You move over!”

Murphy grumbled, and Clarke swung her elbow back as hard as she could. The taller boy stumbled back, clutching his shoulder, and decided to brush his teeth from farther away from the mirror.

“Why couldn’t you just wait your turn?” He said through a mouthful of minty freshness.

“Because I want the bed tonight, and you owe me.” Clarke gleamed, rinsing and spitting.

“But- but-“ Murphy stuttered, and she turned to match his gaze with a steely look of determination.

He approached slowly, gently, dipping down to get a sip of water from the faucet, and then he backed away.

In the direction of the door.

“Oh no you _don’t_!”

Clarke wrestled her way past him, slamming him into the doorway between his shoulder blades and racing to the bedroom, and she heard him coming in hot on her heels.

 _“EAT MY DUST JONATHAN!”_ She screamed, diving onto the fluffy comforter and spreading out like a starfish, taking up as much space as her significantly smaller body could reserve.

He crashed into her legs, unable to stop himself after that brief but intense bout of acceleration towards the bed, pinning her underneath him.

He made no effort to move, and Clarke gasped for air. _“Can’t. Breathe.”_

“Then I suppose you’ll give me what I want, yes?”

Clarke squirmed, kicking and shoving until he took a jab to his huge, stupid, mostly _stupid_ nose. He rolled over then, and they both scrambled to be the first under the covers.

“You’re not moving, are you?”

“Nope.”

Clarke rolled over and glared at him, and he smirked.

“Looks like we’re sharing, Princess. “

“Shut up, Murphy.”

“What’sa matter? You got a pea under your mattress, Princess?”

“No, I’ve got an ass _on_ it.”

He grinned and curled up, snuggling his face into a pillow and closing his eyes.

-

“I’m sorry about hurting your head earlier.”

“Go to sleep Murphy.”

Clarke opened her eyes just as he closed his.

“Sorry about kicking you in the nose.” She mumbled, and he sniffed.

“Why do you always do that?” She whispered, wiggling his nose with her index finger.

“I don’t know. Never looked into it… bigger concerns- hey, can you stop that?” He swatted away her hand away.

“Fine, I didn’t like your nose anyway.”

“I have a beautiful nose, so, your statement is false.” He rolled over to face away from her, and she stared at his back.

She bets his skin would be warm. (So warm that it burned off the flesh of whatever poor innocent soul touched it because he was _Satan._ )

“Goodnight McBoob.”

“Goodnight Captain Hook.” She leaned over and ‘ _boop’_ ed his nose with a finger, and he tilted his chin up and bit down. _Hard._

They were never going to get any sleep at this rate.

Clarke considered this, cradling her stinging finger. Her father used to tell her you stop being able to sleep when you’re in love with someone, because reality is finally better than your dreams. He admitted a few years later that he stole it from Dr. Seuss, a pre-apocalypse philosopher or something.

So what about being in a _weird mutual love/hate with an ex-enemy current frenemy/new best friend because they’re possibly the only person left on Earth who knows you after you left your friends and family in shambles with a broken alliance on a radiation-soaked previously claimed territory that they’ve invaded and are likely dead_ _now/ that of which consists of mostly fighting, yelling and name calling with a bit of crying here and there and one ‘I-love-you-in-the-friend-way-except-if-I-were-forced-to-choose-to-have-sexual-intercourse-with-another-of-the-opposite-gender’ confession_ type of relationship?

Does that apply?

Or was it just because he kept rubbing her shins with his cold-ass feet and taking all of the sheets?

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S SO FLUFFY!
> 
> Pretty please with a cherry on top let me know what you thought in the comments below, it means a lot to hear your opinions, favorite bits and ideas which ALWAYS inspire me for future installments.
> 
> I love you little weirdos so much! This was a SUPER fun installment to write and I hope you enjoyed it too. <3


End file.
